


a simple love

by aliaaaaaa



Series: wrong turns and bumpy roads [2]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Joseph Liebgott and His Emotional Constipation State, M/M, Malarkey and Luz Are Great Bros, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 12:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9726791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliaaaaaa/pseuds/aliaaaaaa
Summary: The line separating love from hatred is very thin, and if you don’t sort those two emotions properly, everything would go up in flame.





	

**Author's Note:**

> because I wanted to write the pining from Liebgott's POV and this got heavier for a Valentine's Day fiction oh god.

The small room was bathed with the morning sunlight that filtered in through the cracks on the wall. The room was quiet, almost empty saved for the two occupants lying on the bed.

Liebgott was awake but the other person was still sleeping soundly with Liebgott’s arm wrapped around his broad shoulder; thumb tenderly caressing Webster’s face, calloused skin catching on baby smooth surface.

Webster’s breathing was calm and steady. He hummed in contentment and burrowed deeper in the other man’s embrace, searching for the warmth that he subconsciously knew Liebgott always emitted.

Liebgott smiled fondly at him, his fingers strayed to Webster’s glossy dark thick hair, weaving his fingers to scratch at the messy locks.

If someone had told Liebgott years ago that he would find contentment just by looking at a beautiful man sleeping in his arms, he probably would have punched the person’s mouth until they couldn’t speak anymore. But look at him now. Pressing a soft kiss on the crown of Webster’s hair, breathing in the sleepy scent that calmed his heart.

He had forgotten what peace felt like after witnessing too many deaths in this war.

But being with Webster like this, had trudged up a memory of what his Ma once said to him.

_“The line separating love from hatred is very thin, and if you don’t sort those two emotions properly, everything would go up in flame_.”

Liebgott never hated Webster. Not once. Not even when he didn’t show up in Bastogne to help out. It was hell that he would never wish on anyone, especially  on someone as naïve as Webster. Someone who was too pretty to be in huddled in a freezing foxhole. Someone who was too wide-eyed to be a soldier. Webster wouldn’t survive Bastogne and for that Liebgott was secretly glad.

But it didn’t mean that he would let the matter go. There was a part of him that twisted up with bitterness; a part of him that wanted Webster to be punished because he had returned to the company looking healthy and he had the audacity to smile and act _friendly_ when everyone else was hanging on the edge, about to fall apart.

That part in Liebgott made him push Webster around. Sneered at him and threw insults at his pretty face. He was angry. Furious at the bastards that started the war. Upset that his close friends were injured and died so pointlessly.

Liebgott had no one to hurl his frustration at and Webster had became the unwilling target of his wrath; swallowing his abuse and still smiling as if he was not affected and _that_ made him push Webster even more. His words became poison even to his own ears and it made him become someone who he would have loathed.

Then everything went up in flame when instead of swallowing everything and smiling; Webster got up and left instead; leaving a sour taste on his tongue that Liebgott later recognized it as guilt.

Still, he fought off the sour taste. Spit it out at anyone who was willing to hear; telling everyone that Webster needed to be knocked off his high horse for thinking that he was above everyone else. His bitching got to the point that even Malarkey had to say something.

“Jesus, Joe. Give it a rest, ” the redhead grumbled. “Either you fuck him or shut the fuck up.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Liebgott bristled, eyes narrowing dangerously when Malarkey ignored him.

“He’s talking about you wanting to bone Webster,” Luz provided tiredly, a cigarette dangling from his mouth; the burning orange glow looking bright in the dimmed room.

“I don’t want to bone Webster,” Liebgott growled out his denial, hands clenched into tight fists.

“Yet you keep pulling his pigtail and demand for his attention,” Luz answered, voice raising a bit when he saw Liebgott tried to cut him off. “Everyone can see it, Lieb. You treat him like shit and you expect him to be ok with it! Then when he doesn’t pay attention to you anymore, you act like a jilted lover because he fucking left you.”

Liebgott’s forehead puckered in frustration, wanting to reply to Luz’s observation; wanting to deny. But the smaller man had snubbed out his cigarette and burrowed in his blanket for the much needed sleep; fastidiously ignoring the anger rolling off Liebgott.

Then Malarkey’s voice piped up.

“You gotta stop hurting him, Lieb,” the redhead murmured sleepily. “You need to clean up this mess and apologize to him.”

That night he didn’t get much sleep. He tossed and turned in the lumpy mattress to find the perfect spot to rest his wary body but his mind was too loud for him to shut it up.

His Ma’s stern voice kept replaying in his mind.

_“The line separating love from hatred is very thin.”_

Was he in love with Webster? He didn’t think so. He was not capable of loving someone, he knew this. But Webster hadn’t asked him to stop. Webster had swallowed his abuse with the grace of a saint and he– no one had ever done that with him. No one could stand him due to his brash and rude manners. But Webster  had smiled and had let the insults roll off his back and had held his head high and– he pushed Webster too far because he wanted to test his limit. He wanted to see if Webster could stand him _and Webster could_ to some point and that had never happened to him and shit–

Liebgott remembered it now back in the aid station when he was forced to clean the wound on his neck; he remembered Webster’s babbling about his million dollar wound on his shin, how his voice had turned slurry due to the drug and he remembered when Webster turned his face to look at him and all he could see was blue. A vivid blue that reminded him of the calm morning ocean in Frisco. The blue that reminded him of home.

He acted like an asshole. He had hurt Webster with his venomous words and he wanted to… do something to fix it.

But Webster was nowhere to be found. It was as if he had vanished from the company because no one had seen him, not even during mealtime and that didn’t sit well with Liebgott because the sour taste on his tongue had slid down to his throat and there was a sharp painful feeling stabbing his chest when he thought of Webster now.

He was worried about Webster.

Him; the very same person who had verbally abused Webster was worried about a grown man who could definitely punch anyone down but was too gentlemanly to do it because it was not civil.

Liebgott didn’t think Webster was avoiding him until he stumbled upon the Harvard man lounging with Janovec and Christenson; blue eyes bright and smiling softly at something Christenson was saying. But when Webster had looked up to see him standing there watching him, his face paled considerably and Liebgott knew he fucked it up so bad when Webster leapt out from his seat, leaving his meal on the table, citing that he had forgotten to do something that Luz had asked him too.

It became painfully obvious afterwards that Webster was doing whatever that he could to avoid talking to him.

Liebgott felt his stomach twisting up with the sour bile of guilt whenever he thought of Webster avoiding him but at the same time he felt a curious sensation of longing for the man; wanting to get near him, wanting to be close but he couldn’t. And there was something hot and red throbbing in his chest whenever he saw Webster hanging out with Janovec and Christenson, laughing with them, smiling at them and he realized belatedly that maybe, perhaps, slowly and all at once he had fallen for Webster.

Probably had been since before Bastogne but he was too busy trying to stay alive to pick at his own complicated feelings and now he went and fucked everything up because he was so stupid and so intent on holding on to his hurt that he had hurt another person who didn’t deserve it.

What Webster deserved were sincere apologies and a better person. Someone who could articulate their feelings into words well to avoid any unnecessary misunderstandings. Someone who was the opposite of him; a man who pined after Webster from afar, too afraid to get closer because he didn’t want Webster to run away from him again. There was only so much rejection a man could take and it was a blow to his ego, another notch on the failure column whenever Webster turned him back on him.

He had the thought of maybe he should just stop trying to get Webster’s attention at all. That maybe there was no chance for him to fix things with Webster and to see if the man would want to be something more.

But Malarkey, always the voice of reason, had quietly urged him to do the right thing.

“We are in a war, Lieb,” Malarkey said, voice sounding too awake. “Anything could happen to us in any moment. You could be walking down the street to cross the road then the next thing you know you’re dead.”

“What are you saying?”

Malarkey had turned to look at him then, his scruffy face looking haggard; there was nothing cheerful left in him.

“I’m saying you should tell Webster whatever it is you want to tell him before it’s too late. You’d regret it if you don’t.”

Webster’s soft snuffle pulled Liebgott out from his reverie; a soft sleepy whine escaped from Webster’s pouty mouth when Liebgott disentangled himself from the other man.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Liebgott teased quietly, brushing back Webster’s unruly hair out of his face only to watch Webster blinking his blue eyes slowly at him; and he felt like he was being awashed by an ocean worth of love.

“What time is it?” Webster asked, voice rough from his sleep.

“Too early for patrol, too late for breakfast.”

Webster hummed his response, his eyes fluttering shut once more and Liebgott took a shuddering breath.

They had talked at length after the high from their first desperate kiss had simmered down. Everything was in the open for them. No more secret longing, no more pining, no more denial. They wanted this. Even when it would take a lot of courage to make things work, they wanted this because it had taken them a lot of wrong turns and bumpy roads to finally reach each other.

Of course they still argue on everything and anything because Webster was a pretentious Harvard man and Liebgott loved to rile Webster up, picking at his brain to see if he was really smart. It was mind-stimulating as much as it was arousing to watch Webster’s face flushing with excitement when he wanted to prove Liebgott wrong.

The desperate kisses and the needy roaming hands were just pleasurable bonuses to their arguing.

But in all honesty, this quiet moment, with the soft sunlight splashing over Webster’s pretty face, bathing his naked body in golden hue; with Webster pressing so close to him; _this_ was the moment Liebgott loved the most.

A simple love, the comforting sense of home.

**Author's Note:**

> if you have reached this point without wanting to scream at me about how awful this is then congratulations! thank you for reading and comments and kudos are very much appreciated!


End file.
